Sure, they're made up of almost the same stuff, but a scone is not a biscuit.

I used to live down the street from a very charming all-day eatery. There was coffee and pastries in the morning, a manageable sandwich selection at lunch, and a navigable dinner menu. Theoretically it was the perfect spot to cozy up with a scone and a pot of tea on a "sick" day. But no, this was not a scone I would partake in. In fact, I was so offended by this scone that it still annoys me to this day.

What I gather these very kind folks did (and they really are so kind, so I feel extra bad complaining) was simply fold lemon zest and dried fruit into a buttermilk biscuit dough. A great way to streamline your prep list, sure, but it was also an excellent move to get on my last nerve. I've been accused of getting upset about the wrong/small things and not enough at the big stuff.

Point being, a biscuit is not a scone. Sure, they're made up of almost the same stuff—flour, leavener, fat, dairy—but they are two altogether different things and you better not try to trick me into thinking one is the other. Let me be clear that this is in no way a hate letter to biscuits. I love biscuits. I may marry one someday. But they are different then a scone and cannot, should not, be dressed up to look like one.

Biscuits should be light—airy even—with well-defined flaky layers. Tender, yes, but sturdy enough to support or be dragged through gravy, a runny egg yolk, or a generous serving of maple syrup. A scone should not flake like a biscuit. It can have layers of course, but they should err on the side of crumbly. A scone is slightly dryer than a biscuit and yet, when done well, not dry at all. Scones are intended to be consumed with a hot beverage of your choice after all. And clotted cream, or butter, or jam. Or, hell, all three.

A scone's finer crumb welcomes an addition, be it herbs, chocolate, or a simple handful of currants. Ever try to add raisins to a biscuit? Of course you haven't because you're not a crazy person. Would you want to eat that poor burned raisin hanging off a biscuit cliff for dear life? I didn't think so.

Look, I know my argument is slightly under-baked but this is one of the few food areas about which I have very definitive feelings. Can you tell?

So when Test Kitchen contributor Jess Damuck set out to develop a perfect scone recipe, I was watching. Very. Closely. Believe you me, we've had enough biscuitsaroundhere to know the difference. After eating about 48 scones each over the course of a few days, we knew she had nailed it. What we offer you here is a blank scone canvas. Tender, just crumbly enough, ready, able, and yielding to a number of delicious additions. I'm partial to the original myself but I'll bet you go for cinnamon-chocolate.

Call it a biscuit. Call it a scone. Just don't call it late for dinner (ha! sorry). No, really, just call it what it is.